Not all cats are cunts
My mum grew up in a small cottage in the middle of a wood because my grandparents didn't have a pot to piss in. They kept pigs and chickens, ferrets to catch rabbits, got water from a well and always grew up surrounded by animals.

Of the many pets they had (which included a black chow with a very unpolitically correct name) were a german shepherd dog called Lassie and a cat named Tiny. They generally got on pretty well, but later on into her life Lassie began to lose her sight and as she did so her and Tiny began to have a much closer bond.

When Lassie eventually went blind the two became inseperable. Tiny would stick her tail straight up, then Lassie would put her nose on Tiny's tail tip and then Tiny would lead her around the woods on walkies, making sure the route was obstacle free and ensuring her bezzie mate was able to lead an active life. No one knew how either of them had learnt how to do this, it was just something they had worked out on their own.

When Lassie finally died the cat stopped eating, slept all day and seemed to be pretty ill. When the vet saw her he said health wise she was fine. Diagnosis: dying of a broken heart.

Tiny passed away two weeks after she lost her best friend.
(DraconacticusThere's a tractor in my balls, Thu 31 Jan 2013, 20:31,
7 replies)

I used to live at a pub, which my dad ran.
We got a cat, she was black; black, as the dead of night.

So we called her Snowy. The confused looks when we told people were a constant source of amusement.

One day she got inside the pool table. A few minutes later one of the regulars came in, put his money in and released the balls. As he reached into the receptacle at the end of the table to pick the balls up a black furry paw shot out, swatted him on the back of the hand and disappeared back inside the table. He screamed and nearly shit himself in fright; as the rest of the pub nearly shit themselves in laughter :)
(Could it be? Yes, it's Prof KM...<not really a professor anymore>, Fri 1 Feb 2013, 13:34,
9 replies)

we have a terrapin
He's pretty cool, like a little dinosaur, and he's great to watch. He basks under a UV light and sometimes will stick one leg out, which makes for great comedy. He's not the dog of our dreams, but he's ours and we love him dearly nonetheless.

Anyway

About 3 years ago we got him some cuttlefish, and after great japes and surfing, it eventually sunk to the bottom of the tank where he would nibble at it. One evening we were sitting on the sofa when we noticed something black and shit-like poking out of the middle of his tail. I took mild interest, because I'd never seen him take a crap before, and pointed it out to Chris. But this crap got bigger...and bigger. Eventually, our terrapin was under water, bouncing on top of a medium-sized mushroom looking thing poking out of its tail.

'HOLY SHIT CHRIS,' I cried, 'OUR TERRAPIN'S HAVING A PROLAPSE!'

Actually, it turns out that terrapins have some of the most terrifying sexual organs in the natural world. This thing was a bulbous sac about the size of his torso. we had the good sense to google 'terrapin prolapse' and turns out we weren't the only ones to have this reaction. The most interesting thing is the cuttlefish. He had nibbled it into a shape oddly resembling another terrapin - there was 4 pointy limbs, a head and tail, and before the prolapse he had started floating in front of it and scratching at his neck, a thing that male terrapins do, apparently, to woo the ladies. Supposedly this is quite a rare and beautiful sight and we should consider ourselves lucky to have seen it. In actuality, I'm scarred for life.

About 2 years ago, my small daughter become interested in a particular website that listed RSPCA dogs for adoption.

The site shows photos of each dog, and gives a cheery description of each one. One particular dog caught our eye, a Husky/Cattle Dog cross. Stocky, pricky up ears, lovely markings. Her name was Sasha. A quick call to the RSPCA established that, yes, she was still available. She had been born on a farm, but thanks to her Husky heritage, had a very unfriendly farm habit of “hunting” all the animals, so was given up for adoption. No problem, we live on a decent sized suburban block, and have no other animals, save for the incessant Brisbane possum population that climb into the yard and eat everything in the garden.

The next day, while the 2 older kids were at school, myself and smallest Oath son travelled to the RSPCA dog shelter to procure Sasha. It was going to be a triumphant homecoming, new dog for the kids to play with after school, Walkies of an evening. Happy days.

Now, smallest Oath son is blessed with a few challenges in life, non-verbal, cannot understand a lot of his surroundings, and has the attention span of a gnat. Autism writ large + healthy streak of ADHD. Good times, in my household every day is an interesting adventure. Whatever, he’s part of our family, so he goes wherever we all go, even to RSPCA shelters.

Anyway, we arrive in the family wagon, newly purchased leash, collar and water bowl at the ready. We enter the office and introduce ourselves.

Before long Sasha has been let out of her compound, and is sitting next to us. She is silent, showing the 1000 yard stare of all long term inmates. She tolerates our pats, and the tail slowly starts to wag. A delightful, quiet dog. Fur as soft as a cat thanks to her breeding heritage. It was easy to pat her, and she nuzzled for some more attention.

By now, youngest Oath is very excited, lets out a long piercing scream (normal speech pattern for him, it usually means “my word, I’m a bit excited at the moment” or, maybe” One is rather hungry, could you please furnish me with some victuals”).

Anyway, just as we are handing over our money, the RSPCA lady suddenly says, “No, you can’t have this dog. Your son will hurt her”. She was obviously unsettled by youngest Oath’s noise. No amount of reasoning or pleading could change her mind, and in hindsight, I don’t blame her. Most people find his extraordinary noise level confronting.

Sasha was oblivious to it. It was just the RSPCA lady being extra protective, but still, a kick in the guts.

Now, I love dogs, and was so looking forward to the kids enjoying growing up with the unconditional love of a dog in their life. But, it wasn’t to be. We drove back home, without Sasha dog.

I was deeply disappointed, but philosophical at the same time. It was just another episode whereby youngest Oath’s behaviour caused us to rapidly change plans, whether we wanted to or not. We’d had plenty of similar experiences, and well, frankly, there will be a lifetime of similar experiences to come, so, always keep trying, but better get used to it.

When we arrive back home, the older kids were disappointed, as was my wife. No-one blamed youngest Oath. It just was what it was.

The next day, I flew out to work, for a 2 week roster in the middle of nowhere.

After a couple of days, when I was briefly within mobile phone coverage, I received a message with an accompanying photo – Sasha sitting in the back seat of my wife’s car, muzzle out the window, happily snuffling in the breeze.

My wife had taken matters into her own hands, travelled to the RSPCA in her little car, breezily asked to see a dog called Sasha that she had seen on the internet, handed over the money, and taken her back home.

We’ve had her almost two years now, and she is definitely big part of our family. Loves us dearly, we love her, look after her needs, we all travel everywhere together.

She has a particular bond with smallest Oath son, his eating habits are a little, um, messy, so she happily follows him around, knowing that a few snacks will be on offer, whether by design or happy accident. Sometimes he is happy to hand over food, she gently takes it, tail slowly swishing from side to side in happiness.

I have never had a more loyal, trusting, obedient dog.

And last years’ tally was six dead possums, carefully stalked, dispensed with and happily eaten. Our garden has never looked better.

Dibbs
About three years ago Mrs Deskbound and myself decided to get a rescue dog.

As both our families had owned pets, we thought we were more than qualified to look after a furry bundle of joy.

We headed off to Battersea Dogs Home one Saturday morning. It was one of the most heartbreaking experiences of my life. Anyway, we ended up taking home Dibbs, a Jack Russell cross.

He was a nervous, little fella and had obviously had a bad start to life. We realised how bad a few days later. He'd never been trained (he was just over a year old). He also had extremely bad separation anxiety. So training him and helping him to cope became a full time job. It meant we put our lives on hold.

Despite this, he was such a gentle and loving little guy and he made us both realise things about ourselves and in the end actually brought us closer together.

We made massive strides in helping him to overcome his anxiety. He was fine on the lead and we could even leave him alone without him barking the house down.

But he's a dog and does what dogs do. About a year after we got him, we were taking him for a walk when he caught the scent of something and bolted. The trouble was he was off the lead, albeit in a fenced off area... But he found a hole in the fence and ran out into the road. We didn't see it, but heard the bang. Time slowed down and we ran to see what had happened. He was lying in the road so i stopped the traffic and picked him up. He was still alive but had suffered massive trauma. Some kind passer by stopped their car and took us to a local vets. He died twenty minutes later in my arms.

I think about him most days. He taught me about what unconditional loves is and how something can be totally dependent on you. It was a tough but amazing year and I wouldn't have had it any other way.
(DeskboundYou insignificant speck of dust, Thu 31 Jan 2013, 20:22,
5 replies)

I have a pet snake
I've posted about her before- she's not the brightest spark, and will do things like tie herself into knots and then panic, or "hide" by burying her head and thinking she's safe, not realising that the other two feet of her is sticking out in the open...

Anyway, a few weeks ago I was holding her while reading, and she crawled under my hair. This isn't too unusual- I have very long hair, so it's warm, and dark, which is pretty much snake heaven (much like how she treats any warm beverage, sleeves, and unguarded cleavage.) This time, however, I sneezed. Sudden noises make snakes panic! So she instinctively curled up into a ball. This meant that she had woven herself into my hair and then effectively "knotted" herself in.

I tried pulling her out gently, but she was pretty freaked so she just clung even tighter. Then I tried leaving her to crawl out on her own, but at that point I think she realised she was 'safe' and had dozed off. By now I'm panicking- there's a snake stuck in my hair, and she has been known to sleep for days!

At this point the phone rang (the snake twitched irritably at the noise), and my friend asked me if I was going to the pub. I declined with the frantic babble: "I might be late! I have a snake stuck in my hair!" I whispered it as softly as possible, and hung up.

In the end, after 40 minutes, I managed to coax her out with a defrosted mouse.
(Sivvustrolley collision in the fruit aisle led to a jam, Fri 1 Feb 2013, 21:03,
8 replies)

So, after my mum killed my cat
She finally relented through guilt to let me have a budgie.My nan always had budgies. The kind that sat on her shoulder tweeting 'who's a pretty boy then', swinging off the bridge of her glasses and turning the cards over for her while playing patience, sat at the dining room table. I was so excited. I knew I had to get a young male as they are the best talkers.Charlie finally came into my life and I adored him. I got him all the best food, and an ace big cage and a bath and treats and sat by him talking to him for months. Eventually it dawned on me that he really didn't want to talk. No fucking way. Stubborn bastard.What he really wanted to do was take my eyes out when he was let free for a fly around. So much so I had to run out of the room after opening the cage as he would viciously dive bomb me, if he caught me he would peck at my face and grab my hair while squawking blue murder at me. Only after he would return to his cage could I come back into the room.Any attempt to change his food, water, stroke him, put in a millet spray would be met with his blue fucking feathered Velociraptor impression as he tried to take apart my hand peck by peck.I did really try to make friends though, he broke my heart.Bastard miserable budgie sat hunched on his perch with his cold dead eyes, silently mocking me while making himself laugh in his little budgie mirror. Birds like that have a usual life span of 5-10 years, unless they are happy and healthy and this fucker was clearly not happy. I figured he would be flying down to bad bird hell after a while. 15 years later. 15 FUCKING YEARS LATER the vet insisted on putting him down.Only because his claws had become so deformed through bitterness and hatred that he couldn't hold onto his perch anymore, he clung on till the very end just to spite me I am sure of it.
(Herb Alpert's Taxi DriverI have very beautiful lips, Mon 4 Feb 2013, 22:42,
2 replies)

I've copied and pasted this from Jessie's profile... I don't think she'd have minded
Obviously, it's a repost - from the "Accidental Animal Cruelty" question:

Oh, and it's a long'un. Suck it up, you love it.

My family are mostly animal lovers.They have had dogs since I was about 8 and have had many an adventure, but a few instances of accidental cruelty stick in my mind.

* The time that their dopey doberman became interested in stones thrown into the sea. This was a fine game indeed, find a pebble, call her name, chuck it into the sea and watch her furiously try and sniff it out (spluttering if she timed dunking her snout underwater wrong) before spotting that you have another and instantly losing interest and running back to try and catch that one...only the game evolved, to ever bigger stones, and on this fateful day a large rock about the size of a hand was being thrown, and unfortunately the poor girl spotted it before she was supposed to, resulting in a doberman intercepting a large and heavy rock straight in the smacker.

She knocked out all of her front teeth, but that was only discovered when getting back to the car as she hadn't even flinched, just proudly jumped around her catch, seemingly oblivious to the fresh gap in her gums.She was (of course) taken to the vets, but the teeth had been knocked pretty cleanly out so not much could be done really and she was absolutely fine, never seemed to bother the eejit :)

* My dog, not the smartest in the world, not the stupidest...but also has his Dope Award moments. We used to play the classic game of 'catch your tail', which he'd humour us with briefly then move on. Until the fateful day my mum decided to hold his tail for him, trying to eek a few more minutes of tail chasing out of him. He happily chased it around a bit, my mum moving with him, but then all of a sudden he had a burst of enthusiasm and leaping forward he grabbed for his tail.

That yelp made me feel like the shittest owner ever, and the hurt expression he gave us was heart breaking. He'd managed to dislocate his own damn tail and it was crooked for weeks :/

* My dog again. He's a very well behaved dog, though not rigidly trained, there's some debate about the level of training dogs need but I must admit that I'm quite happy with his, he knows his place and when you call him on something he knows when to stop fucking about and take you seriously, but he has a real mischievous streak and a whole lot of personality for a dog. One thing he learned pretty early on is that food isn't his until it's given to him, you can drop the tastiest thing ever in front of him and he'll just stare rigidly at it, occasionally glancing at you to find out its fate and only going for it if you tell him 'ok'. Though it was never tested too thoroughly with us out the room the boy knew not to steal food either so we were pretty much covered on all bases.The accidental cruelty came one night when we were having a bit of a late snack, none of us being hungry enough for a full meal. we went through to the utility where the big fridge is and loaded our arms up with a few choice bits, cheese, tasty condiments/pickles, left over meats (you get the picture) and retired to the living room to consume them. The dog followed us in to check it out but soon left again, knowing that he wouldn't get ANYthing if he sat and watched, we all assumed he had retired to his basket to wait for any left overs we might be inclined to share...only he hadn't, not quite. Periodically he kept wandering in to the room and staring at us, kind of hopefully, noticing the looks of 'out!' and wandering out again, but he kept coming back! ever more desperate look in his eyes each time. The last few times I could hear quiet whimpers as he approached and left.There was nothing noticably wrong with him, and eventually he retired to his basket and stayed there, not quite settled but at least not upset, and we locked him in the utility where he sleeps and all went to bed ourselves.

When I came down the next morning I was met at the door by a large, frantic and ecstatic canine! as I turned the corner with him bounding around me I finally found out why...there on the floor, underneath the fridge and not two feet from his basket, was a large chunk of ham. Untouched.

Remembering his doggy lessons he had resisted snatching that succulent treat, right from when it had been dropped unseen from our late feast, through the hours of us sat downstairs ignoring his pleas, right through the night as he tried to ignore its tempting aroma right by his nose.

Needless to say, serious praise was inflicted on him and the tortorous ham became his own private feast, fusses were aplenty that day :)Since then we have become aware of his 'Lassie' actions and come to understand what it means when he comes to find us out with that hopeful look in his eyes and meaningful whimper, if you follow him he will show you exactly what he's asking for, and though he doesn't always get it it's certainly a useful communication for us.

/about 6 by 4" and honey-mustard glazed

UPDATE: Just last year, Jake - he of the crooked tail and ham-resisting skills, finally died. He'd been in poor health for a while, and in fact the last time Jess & I went to see him (he lived at her mum's), Jess cried in the car on the way home, as she thought it would be the last time she saw him. I still can't get my head around the fact that she was right; only it was her that died first.When I say "in poor health", he wasn't suffering. Just old, and deaf. He'd still wander around, take great pleasure in eating anything he was given, and enjoyed a good scratch behind the ears, but he couldn't hear you if you called him from another room. Last year though, he suddenly took a turn for the worse and it was finally time. I'm not ashamed to admit I had a little cry; it was like another part of Jess had gone.
(Could it be? Yes, it's Prof KM...<not really a professor anymore>, Fri 1 Feb 2013, 13:43,
6 replies)

Cat embarrassment
My wife convinced me to get a kitten, so we did, a very cute black one. I'd asked for a male, as boys are best and once they're neutered they're no trouble. Within days of having the kitten at home, and stroking his lovely fluffy tummy, I noticed that 'he' had nipples, and not just two, but two rows of them. So I called the vet.Me: My male cat's got nipples so I'm worried he's actually femaleVet: Is that Mr Smale I'm talking to?Me: YesVet: I bet you've got nipples too.Me: **embarassed that I could be so dim**
(Smaleis stuffed, Wed 6 Feb 2013, 22:41,
6 replies)

the dog, the dog, he’s at it again
Took the dog to the vet yesterday for his yearly M.O.T. He passed with flying colours – all legs present and correct, nose wet, anus still warm and accommodating. His sense of humour is on fine form too as when the vet was checking his heartbeat, Dylan, being the master of comedic timing, chose the exact moment the stethoscope touched him to let out the spirit of the wild in one single, solitary, earth shattering guttural bark. This massive ‘woof’ literally blew the vet’s mind! He jumped up about 2 feet. I’m pretty sure if it wasn’t for the veterinarian oath he would have put him to sleep right then and there.

If you haven’t already, I suggest you all at one time or another play Buckaroo with a sleeping Jack Russell. Be sensible though, spatulas and wooden spoons should suffice– don’t be piling on microwaves and washing machines. Pillows are good too– better in fact as the resultant clatter of cutlery when he wakes won’t cause him to bolt and run straight into the patio door resulting in yet another visit to the vet. Although you will be missing out on the follow up game of unflattening the dog’s face. I find the best method of doing this is to place your lips around the dog’s anus– ensuring a tight seal– and blowing. You’ll find his nose will just pop right out with a satisfying ‘floompth’ like a washing up glove.
(stooeyNot an actor but I play one on TV, Thu 31 Jan 2013, 21:31,
3 replies)

Tortoises are horny little scamps.
We have two tortoises- both male- creatively named Tortoise and Tiny.

Tortoise is gay. We're not sure about Tiny. Whenever Tortoise mounts him, Tiny will make a strange, high pitched keening noise.

One time my grandma had a bible study group in the garden and this keening starts from the tortoise hut. All the little old ladies and the vicar ask my grandma what the noise could possibly be-?

Wow! Said the old ladies. Can we see it? We never knew tortoises sing! Can we see them singing?

"No." My grandma said hastily, "They only sing when they're in the dark. If we open the hut they'll just stop. It's why they're not on telly."
(Sivvustrolley collision in the fruit aisle led to a jam, Sat 2 Feb 2013, 17:59,
1 reply)

total pea-roast, but you might find this amusing
This is probably a good place to tell you about my amazing snake.

About 5 years ago a friend was getting rid of his corn snake. As I've always wanted a snake I asked for him, and Huzzah! I became the happy keeper of a beautiful corn snake. He had a small scar from when My friend had lost him and found him with the hoover, but was lovely looking and having been brought up in a house with very small children was very tolerant.

A year or so later, we had to move house, and couldn't find a new one before we had to move out of the old one, so we went to stay with some people we knew,and put most of our stuff in storage. Three days after we got there, we returned to their house to discover smoke pouring out from under the floorboards in the living room. After wandering about for a bit trying to work out what was going on, we open the hall door to go upstairs and met with a wall of smoke. yup, their bloody house was on fire. We later found out the floor had collapsed over where we were wandering around shortly after we got out. Hurrah for not dying!

Among our clothes and other replaceable essentials, my snake was upstairs in his tank in our bedroom. the fire was upstairs. Arse. Not much I could do about it though.

After a few hours of worrying that the fire was our fault (it wasn't - woo!) and watching the firemen go in and out, the fire was vanquished. One of the firemen (in full kit) was nearly killed by the backdraft when he opened the door into our friends bedroom where the fire had been caused by a dodgy electrical socket sparking. The heat had been so intense it melted all her jewellery and stuff. My snake was in the next room. Again, arse.

Then a nice firelady asked whose the snake was. Sadly, I said he was mine, expecting to be shown a blackened crispy dead thing. She said she didn't really understand why, but he was OK. He was a bit brown and sticky (like a stick!) from the smoke, but he was otherwise fine. Still, 4 (8 now - this is an ooold pearoast) years on, when he sheds his skin (more often than he used to) there's always a brown smudge along the top of it. For a couple of days afterwards he was quite sluggish, so my guess is that he slowed down his breathing or some other reptilian trickery. I dunno.

2 years later he escaped. He had been prowling around his tank looking for a mate, refusing to eat anything for a few months, when he managed to prise the lid open and get out. The front door happened to be open, and he was gone by the time we realised. Arse!

A whole year later, I was coming in from the garden, when there he was! My wife came running because I bellowed 'SHIT!" so loudly she thought I was hurt. When she saw me with Rusty around my neck she was speechless. I should probably mention here that we live in the North Cornish countryside, in England. He'd survived a whole year, including a fairly harsh British winter. There were feathers in his poo, so he'd definately been hunting, etc. There had been an unconfirmed sighting of a corn snake over a mile away from us while he was gone. I like to think that was him. Now after another escape scare (kids left tank lid off, he got out but was under my daughters bed) he's curled up in his tank in my office.

So huzzah for my amazing cornsnake - he's survived fire, the English countryside, vacuum cleaners and small children.

I had a half ginger tom, half siamese psycho cat
It was the size and colour of a conventional tomcat but with the physique of a siamese, so basically it was a scaled down tiger.

We used to live in a house that backed onto a lake in a park, so it was always bringing interesting presents back, such as frogs (who scream like children and piss themselves when you try and rescue the fuckers), little birds and sometimes fish.

However one day I started hearing an almighty racket from the kitchen, where the cat flap was located. I rushed down to find the normal siamese on the inside of the cat flap and the masssive ginger one on the outside and a really confused and livid goose stuck halfway in and out of the cat flap.

To this day I've got no idea how the insane little fecker had managed not only to get hold of a goose, but somehow get it over an 7 foot fence, drag it down the garden and then shove its head in through the cat flap and then enlist the help of the other cat, or what it thought it would do with it once it got it in.
(DinivanXHas stinging piss after drinking Pact Coffee, Fri 1 Feb 2013, 10:20,
7 replies)

DNA?
The recent Tesco horse-burger bullshit reminded me of this...

A few years back I spent some time on a French farm. Great days. Apart from the work - I was assigned full-time to the dairy, a huge, industrial-sized factory that pumped out over 10m litres of milk a year.

Anyway, the dairy duties weren't that bad, the worst thing was the hours. The cows needed milking at all times, and it was many a 3am that I found myself rigging up the machines, often with only the 60yr old dairy manager for company. The system was so automated that the two of us could rinse 1000's of gallons by ourselves.

He was a strange man the dairy manager. He lived onsite, literally behind the cowshed and had dedicated his entire life to the dairy. To keep the things fresh, cows were inseminated regularly, as new calves were required to replace the oldies when their milk turned sour or something. Trouble was, half of the newborns were males and therefore no use to a dairy farm. These poor calves were housed and fed for a short period before being sent of the local abattoir, where they were slaughtered and ground up for all sorts meat-based products.

But before they were sent on their fateful journey, the old dairy manager would bottle-feed them and chat with them for a while. One night he asked me to try something, he asked me to try putting my fingers into a newborn calves-mouth. So I did. The toothless baby-cow took my fingers and sucked and sucked and sucked, it's surprisingly smooth tongue rolling around my digits. Unsure what to make of this, I removed my fingers and looked questionably at the old man.

'C'est bon, eh?' He asked.

'Er, I guess so.' I said.

Then, without flinching, he pulled down his kecks, pulled out his rather greasy looking cock and balls and popped his todger in the calf's mouth. He stood there, arms behind his head, hummed a little tune and quickly came to a shuddering climax as the little cowlet sucked him dry.

Grinning, he ambled off to feed the others, all the time looking back at me. 'C'est naturel!' he'd shout over his shoulder, 'Essayer!'

I caught him in the act a few more times before I made my excuses and begged to work in the bottling plant. I'm sure he's still at it. I'm sure a lot of them are. So I was wondering recently, that if examined closely, will the meat from those calves show traces of human DNA?

Amish Cat
We had a cat, called Max, that we bought from the local Hutterian Brethren. They are a religious community near our village, somewhat akin to the Amish, although far less strict. They are great people who keep their religion to themselves, but do so much to help others.

Anyway, they had an open day, and we ended up buying a little kitten from them, and we called him Max. Max inherited the peace loving ways of his former home and was constantly walked all over by the local chav cats. His hunting skills were limited to worms. Yes, worms.

I came home from work one day to see Max sitting at one end of the windowsill of the lounge window. At the other end, sitting in similar tacky ornament fashion, was another random cat that Max had let come in through the cat flap.

"Oh great, Max, you useless bastard" I cursed as I unlocked and walked in through the front door, resolving to hoof the aforementioned interloper over the back hedge. I opened the doorway from the hall to the lounge, only to see an enormous smear of cat shit arcing away from me across our recently laid & very expensive beige carpet. Interloper had taken a dump right behind the door, so that when I opened it, I smeared the steaming pile across the carpet like a professional turd plasterer.

Deep rage ensues, hissing cat grabbed and hoofed over the back hedge at great altitude. I spend the next several hours retching over & scrubbing a big pile from our deep pile, and had to remove the door to scrub the underside of that too.

Max, just sat and watched the whole thing from his vantage point on the windowsill. I fucking hate cats.
(SausageWarriordestination Zululand, come on boys jump in the van, Fri 1 Feb 2013, 14:23,
1 reply)

Wonder dogs
I've been lucky enough to have two of the best dogs ever.

Brandy was a border collie, who my parents had gotten a few years before I turned up. Very friendly, loyal and intelligent, and when I was born she took an instant liking to me. When my mother would go for walks with me Brandy would always be in tow, and would growl at every person who approached the pram. As an only child in the middle of rural Ireland I'd often go exploring with my canine chum. Even if I was gone for several hours this wouldn't be a cause for concern to mum, since as long as Brandy was gone as well she knew I was alright. Not sure if that's more parental neglect or unwavering trust but anyways. She once had a large litter which was given away to friends & neighbours, but we kept Kylie - sadly, she was poisoned by a local farmer when she was only about a year old.

The other amazing dog was Ranger. He was born to a Springer Spaniel mother and an Alsatian father, and was suitably weird looking - a bit like a tall Corgi. He was also born within two days of my sister, and she put him through the wringer - as a toddler she'd pull his tail, his lips, poke his eyes, nose, etc. but he'd never wince, flinch or even walk away. A very timid dog, or a borderline mongoloid - who knew? We were coming back from town one day when we noticed an injured kitten in a ditch; not sure how she'd ended up there but she was obviously involved in some kind of accident as she was badly mangled. The vet patched her up pretty well but she only had sight in one eye. Her favourite pastime was to sit on Ranger's back and claw him - often till fur was flying everywhere, but again he would barely react. My sister would try to treat the kitten in the same way as she had Ranger, and he wasn't particularly happy about this but rather than bark at her he'd just pick the kitten up by the scruff of her neck and walk to another room.

Well, there's my username...
When I was about eight years old I wanted a pet. My parents had owned a setter called Barney before I was born which was apparently the worst dog ever and spent most of its time shitting everywhere and biting stuff (people, furniture, etc.), so dogs were decided to be out of the question.

A rabbit seemed like no trouble, so my dad arranged to take one off a bloke in the pub who kept rabbits, and spent a Sunday in the back garden contructing a quite impressive hutch (he did love his woodwork), and covering much of our garden with an elaborate chicken-wire run.

Snowy was the most beautiful rabbit who was ever born. I thought rabbits were crap, but when he arrived I realised that this was a special rabbit. He was a pristine white bundle of fluffy gorgeousness. He would hop around, always be happy to cuddle, and ate enough to grow -to my young perspective- about as big as a dog, anyway. I would come home from school and spend hours with Snowy. He was even allowed to come in through the patio doors into the back room (wood floor, east to wipe rabbit shit up) for an hour a night. He was my pride and joy, my best friend, and my first pet.

Anyway. As inevitably happens when you live in a fairly rural area, a fox got into the garden one night, and killed him. It didn't even eat him - just got into the hutch enough to maul him to a bloody death.

Naturally, I was inconsolable. I wouldn't go to school. I wanted to hold him, but my dad said he was going to give him a dignified burial, worthy of such a beloved friend, and Snowy would be best left until then. 'But why is he dead?' I asked. 'A fox got him', Mum explained. 'But why?', I asked, in the typical manner of an annoying child. 'Because Jesus decided he was ready to go to rabbit heaven', my Mum lamely explained.

I thought about it for a moment, dried my eyes, and said 'Well Jesus is a fucking cunt.'

The death of Snowy The Rabbit was my first experience of grief, my first dead pet, my BEST pet, and the only time I've ever used foul language in front of my dear mother.
(SnowyTheWereRabbitthe Leporid from Hell, Thu 31 Jan 2013, 21:09,
4 replies)

Crystal Tips and Alistair
My ex-girlfriend is now the Crazy Cat Lady - in fact, she always has been. When we were together, she lived in a tiny basement flat - along with nine cats and a mahoosive dog. I mean huge, something like a cross between a Great Dane and an Apatosaurus. We'd often wake up by being forced off the double bed because it was entirely covered in Dog, with a side-salad of assorted Cat.

He was hilarious, though - especially when he tried to shag the cats. Being large it would take him a while to shuffle his legs so that his cock was where he thought the cat was, then he'd start to grunt and huff with a glazed expression, gleefully humping empty space - while he was sorting out his giraffe-like legs, the cat had of course simply wandered off.

It was less funny when the gf and I were doing the humping. I'm sure we've all been disconcerted by being watched by a pet while shagging. Now imagine an audience of 10 unblinking pairs of eyes. I kept expecting a round of applause at the end.

Actually I usually think I should get a round of applause, but that's nothing to do with the audience
(moon monkeyis busy making memories worth repressing, Tue 5 Feb 2013, 12:03,
14 replies)

I start reading these stories, really, I do,
But by the end of the first line it always occurs to me I am simply not interested in someone else's dog or cat.
(username failed moderation, Mon 4 Feb 2013, 13:56,
8 replies)

Sonic The Hamster
Growing up I went through a few hamsters, despite my best efforts to care for them they would usually die prematurely. I discovered Sonic cold and stiff lying at the bottom of his cage, seeing how distraught I was my brother tried to convince me he was just hibernating, to the point where I think he started to believe it himself. After I went to bed he took Sonic down to my Dad who examined him before declaring

the next door neigbours had a boxer called ben
while we were on holdiay, they kept it in our backyard while they had their daughter's wedding. It managed to squeeze through the fence palings while they were having the ceremony, whereupon it ran excitely through the crowd until it jumped up greeting their daughter, and happily urinated copiously all over her wedding dress
(cumquat maybecause you're mine, I walk the lino, Sat 2 Feb 2013, 5:28,
2 replies)

We had a Heinz 57 called Bonzo (yes).
At Christmas, we'd give him milk to drink as a treat, and one year, for whatever reasons, my dad's friend's mother-in-law came over. She was great - she drank gin from 9 in the morning, said "Good gracious!" a lot, and taught us rude songs that mum and dad disapproved of.

Towards the afternoon, she started slipping gin into Bonzo's milk, and later on in the evening, I let him out for a piss. He went over to the bush, cocked his leg and fell into it.

Feed the birds not the cat
If you had a (well fed) cat and you also put some bread out in the garden for the birdies, would you expect said cat to:

a) lurk in hedge, wait for the birdies to fly down for the bread and then *pounce* birdies for tea?ORb) eat the bread, vomit on the hall carpet and then lie under the bed looking bilious and bewildered?

Late last summer...
I was in the park with my dog, watching him happily running around investigating stuff that only he could smell, thinking how serendipitous it was that he came into my life when he did; Jess got to spend some time with him (and absolutely adored him), then after she died he kept me going on days when I otherwise would have stayed in bed and drunk myself to death.I was thinking about how amazed I would have been if I'd known what the future held, and how from never having owned a dog before to being left on my own with one could have been such a major trauma, but was fine because I really couldn't have wished for a better dog - he's house trained, doesn't mind being left on his own when I go to work, is always pleased to see me when I get home, and really makes me laugh on almost a daily basis. He's a proper dog, with a real personality, and I love him to bits.

Millie and Buster and Millie and Buster
Years ago, I went back to my hometown to visit family. While visiting the local Ikea, I found a basket full of toy stuffed cats. They came in two colours: striped yellow and grey with white stomach, which is nearly a perfect match to my own cats waiting back home. We bought one of each and left them on the bed in the guest room, where my parents' dog roughed them up and threw them onto the floor, maybe sensing they were his competition (but probably for a much more logical instinctual motivation). Prior to kicking them out of bed.

Over the next few years, every once in a while I'd come home to find someone had mysteriously brought the stuffed cats over to the eating area, often leaving them mouth-down in the food or water bowl. This didn't interest me the first dozen or so times it happened.

I moved to a new apartment that had an ant problem, so I set up a small table for the cat food bowls and water. This now meant that not only would the toys have to be brought over, but they'd have to be lifted up a bit too.

Of course I'm not going to believe these things are coming alive while I'm gone, but why are the cats doing this? I came up with two equally ridiculous theories:1. They thought these things were real cats that needed food, or would become real cats if they ate.2. They considered them like voodoo dolls, in that anything that happens to the toys happens to the corresponding cats. So, feeding them would somehow sustain the living cats.

I used to set up my webcam at home so I could watch my cats while I was at work, and also occasionally play YouTube clips for them of things like bird calls, laughing hyenas, and lions roaring in order to get their attention. Once, I witnessed Buster attack and carry off his doppelganger. When I got home it was at the table.

It was pretty violent and he was shaking it in his jaws as if trying to bite off a piece of flesh. I later read somewhere it's common for cats to collect objects such as toys that they like and to store them where they eat, so I guess that's case closed. Still, it's been pretty weird to watch this behaviour in them for the last few years.

My friends and I were sitting around the dining table playing a game
My dog ran into the room, bombed around under the table, then ran out again.After a few seconds the stench hit us, the little fucker had squirted runny shit over all our legs and feet.
(mictoboylurking on listopia instead, Fri 1 Feb 2013, 8:08,
1 reply)

URSS
Not my pet, but...

As a child, I suffered from eczema. It went round my body, appearing in unexpected (and unwanted places) and would keep me scratching during the day (I was a nightmare to sit next to in the cinema) and tossing and turing at night, only to wake up to find more patches of skin worn bare. Not nice (but not nearly as bad as some people get it).

With this complaint, I needed constant access to creams that would calm things down, soothe the itching and let me get on with life, albeit with bits of flaky skin coming off one body part or other (lost an eyebrow to it at one point, Lost some hair on my head. Hands a constant nightmare. And other bits, you know...)

On holiday in France, we arrived at a hotel somewhere in the Ardeche. As we got out of the car, we were greeted by an enthusiastic and large boxer, who decided I was the sexiest thing on the planet, and started to lick the backs of my legs- just where the eczema was worst. Obviously the cream was alluring, and needed to be tamed. We managed to get the bags out of the car and check in, with the owner of the hotel holding a good few kilos of boxer at bay. The dog's name was Urss, somewhere between "bear" and the French for the USSR, which was sending similar-looking female athletes our way at the time.

In the room, I discovered that my much-needed cream had been left in the car. I grabbed the car keys, and went down to the car park to get the cream back and attend to my dog-licked legs. This much I managed, before being cornered by Urss, who pinned me against the car and proceeded to try and shag me in every position possible, growling in a way which made me know that escape would be punished. Savagely.

Which is how I was found by the hotel owner, being rogered against a car by a large boxer, whimpering quietly to myself.

I have never been the same since, but still praise the resilience of M&S underwear.
(groover j lazerus, Thu 31 Jan 2013, 20:17,
3 replies)

This just happened...
Dog+ extendable lead+ garden with little trees+ dog exploring trees+ trying to follow dog so as not to get tangled+ dog coming to see what you're doing= CARNAGE

I tend to get animals that others don't want.
My first cat was a cross breed from a pure bred Siamese Mother show cat, who had got out of her gilded cage of a home and bred with a moggy from next door. The owners were horrified and said kitten was got rid of at six weeks to me. I nursed him and loved for twelve years until I went to university, leaving him with my Mother. When I came home to visit during my third year it was to find my precious cat very ill with cat flu. A quick trip to the vet and my faithful friend was put to sleep, as he lay still and gone in my hands, the fluid that was slowly drowning him drained from his lungs, there was so much and I was bereft at how much he must of suffered.

A friend had a beautiful pet Honduran Curly Hair Tarantula that she was unable to keep, so I took that on and discovered that I had a real love for the animal. Holding her was amazing because she felt like a small mouse and yet her feet brushed my hand like a ribbon. She was so beautiful and I still do not understand how people can be so fearful of such a delicate animal. Sadly I was forced to rehome her when my landlady freaked out big time when I explained that my vivarium did not contain fish.

Next came my boy Jasper, another kitten who I still have. He was a foundling who turned up in a friends kitchen. He is now seven years old and he sleeps curled up with me every night.

A couple of years ago my other half decided that she wanted to fly a bird of prey again and she set her heart on another Barn Owl. So following a lot of research we found a specialist breeder and booked an appointment. When we got there to see our baby bird we were informed that she had "wing drop!" This turned out to be a broken shoulder joint that had healed badly in her first couple of weeks after hatching. So after some thought and following being told that she was pretty much unwanted, we took her on. She is magnificent, makes a wonderful neck warmer and she loves cuddles from her human mummies. However, she is horrendously territorial she recently caused a huge biker friend of ours to squeal like a girl when she dive bombed his freshly shaven head!